


Miniature Souls

by Eavenne



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Character Study, Classical Music, Gen, Musicians, Past Relationship(s), Piano, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 00:48:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18906100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eavenne/pseuds/Eavenne
Summary: For every season, Austria invites another person into his house, plays another piece on his piano.





	Miniature Souls

The piano glows under the soft spring sunlight.

At its side, the white curtains flutter in the cool breeze, parting and flitting together and parting again – then the snatch of wind vanishes and they fall, quietly, back against the open windows. The piano chair squeaks as Austria assumes his familiar place; in another, more comfortable chair some metres away, his guest waits in breathless anticipation.

This time, Italy is its occupant. As ever, a warm, thoughtless smile sits easily and openly on his face. He has stumbled through life fluctuating between two states – one of dazed contentment, and the other of dull pain. There is no mystery in his eyes, no secret in his heart. Italy simply laughs when he is happy, and cries when he is sad.

Austria wishes he could say the same for himself.

For Italy, he plays something soft and gentle. He nurses the music lovingly, shapes it under his hands, lets the piano’s sweet tones lull him into a cloud-like peace. He plays slowly, steadily; knits the notes together sweetly and comfortingly, as though it is a blanket that he can drape over his listener to protect him forever. Sometimes the music comes to a realisation – Austria lets a chord bear the emphasis of the epiphany, and then lets it go. The melody meanders, pauses thoughtfully, wanders across the flower-dotted meadows…and disappears into the air, unresolved, waiting to be found once more.

Italy has not heard of Satie’s Gymnopédie, but Austria hopes he understands even so –

That spring does not last forever, but it will return as long as the earth still moves. 

\---

The white summer moon hangs in the sky like a pearl earring.

Liechtenstein’s heart-shaped face is fresh and young – she is neither, but appearances are deceptive. She blooms in the chair like a fragrant stargazer lily, quiet and reserved, elegant and delicate. Her presence is a cool breeze in the still summer air. 

Though she once laboured to follow in her brother’s footsteps, and to be like him, Switzerland does not gaze out of those wide green eyes. Austria has known each of them for some time now, and knows that they are very different people. Switzerland looks down at the earth, sees a whirlpool of sin and hate and deceit, and turns his back. Liechtenstein looks up at the sky, sees love and hope and beauty, and raises her arms to embrace it. If Switzerland is a swirling desert, Liechtenstein is a cool oasis pooling within. She softens him, and he hardens her – they become better people in each other’s presence. 

Yet inside, each of them is made of steel.

For Liechtenstein, Austria plays something calm and elegant. The first notes ripple across the warm summer air, dancing gently in the room – he thinks of a beautiful lake he once saw in Switzerland, which must now be a shimmering obsidian slate under the clear night sky. The music grows thick with feeling, draws itself to a temporary close, and turns to a new subject with an unspoken question. There is a shift, and then another; a declaration is made, in a low masculine voice; its words are repeated, delicately, in a high feminine one; a question is asked and answered; the melody circles back to its beginning. 

When it is over, Liechtenstein asks for the name of the piece, and learns that it is the first movement of Debussy’s Arabesque. Austria wants to say more –

That there is pride in being the cool spring that quenches the summer’s heat. 

\---

The earthy scent of autumn floats in the chilly afternoon air.

Hungary’s smile warms the room in an instant. She tilts her head – her long caramel hair tumbles from her shoulder at the movement, bouncing free. Austria stares at it for a moment, forgetting himself. Then he takes a breath, looks down at the keyboard, and wonders what he will play for her today.

He has played for her before – played countless times, played countless pieces. She has whirled across the floor in time with the Hungarian Dances, bobbed her head to Rollo Alla Turca, and shed tears over Chopin’s Funeral March. It is not a question of what piece she will like, for Austria knows that Hungary will love whatever he plays. They have known each other for the longest time, shifting from enemies to lovers to friends – Austria cannot put a name on their relationship, not when it has changed so much and so frequently. 

But she is close to his heart; and he can only hope that he is close to hers, too.

For Hungary, Austria plays something composed, something wild. He begins – the piece is grand at first, stately, calm. Yet it boils with feeling; his ears sing with the harmony of each chord; something changes and his right hand races up and down the keyboard, bright notes sparkling in its wake. Soon he has rushed into an excited frenzy, and thinks of the sound of Hungary’s thrilling laughter – but then it slows, ends, and the oddly gentle melody of the piece’s beginning re-imposes itself on its listeners. It races to higher-pitched, more delicate notes, growing in excitement. Something stirs within Austria. 

Suddenly the music darkens and looks back on the beginning once more. The melody grows tender, unsure, and the room falls into a deep, quiet silence – then Hungary’s eyes flash in Austria’s memory and his heart begins to race. He picks up speed, his fingers flying across the keyboard, the music in beautiful harmony in some parts, dissonant in others – he thinks of new love, and an irrepressible joy bubbles up within him. Wildly, recklessly, he plays on and on, breathing quickly, savouring the adrenaline running through his veins – but all good things must come to end. He stops short, reconsiders; the wear and tear of life catches up to him in a high thrill of horror; he pauses; continues; struggles to feel that same happiness he had once enjoyed so freely before; but it is confused and messy now; it is too late, and at last he resoundingly accepts the end.

The weight of a lifetime slides from Austria’s shoulders.

He does not have to tell Hungary the name of the piece, for she already knows. After all, Liszt was Hungarian; and this is the second movement of his Hungarian Rhapsody. Yet Austria wants her to know –

That life shifts like the falling leaves of autumn but remains beautiful, even in death.

\---

The winter wind blows out the shivering stars.

Austria’s windows are coated with frost – he looks at them, and feels the winter seep in. He wonders if Prussia is cold, wonders if Prussia will actually admit to being cold. It is unlikely. 

The other nation leans back against the armchair, relaxed, waiting disinterestedly to see if Austria will attempt to impress him. There is nothing that Austria has to prove to Prussia – yet his fingers flex at the challenge. He considers a few pieces that might be sufficiently showy, and attempts to decide between several etudes. 

But nothing seems right.

Austria looks at Prussia, remembers how relentlessly he’s chasing Hungary, and wonders if Prussia’s the one fleeing instead. Perhaps he’s running from feelings that he cannot face, from words that he cannot say. Regardless, it doesn’t really matter. Austria doesn’t care. 

All nations are set in their ways, and he doubts he can make a difference. 

For Prussia, he plays a piece that the other man must find familiar. Austria takes a breath – then he hammers the keys, quickly, urgently, like hoof beats in the howling wind. He sees Prussia’s eyes widen – so the other man recognises it, then. It is well known in Germany, for it is sung in German with the piano as accompaniment. 

Austria is about to play the sung part when Prussia’s voice suddenly fills the room.

“Who rides so late through the windy night?”

Obligingly, Austria softens his playing.

“It is the father and his child.”

They go on, hurriedly, following the hoof tracks, seeing the freezing night lying before their eyes. Prussia’s voice deepens: “Son, why do you hide your face in fear?”; then lightens: “Father, do you not see the Elf King? With his crown and train?”; and lowers once more: “Son, it’s just the mist.” 

Then Austria lets his playing grow tender, as Prussia’s voice turns loving – “Come with me, lovely child. We’ll play games. There are flowers on the beach, and my mother has golden clothes.” He sings gently, seductively; his voice is smooth as silk, sweet as honey. Suddenly it heightens in terror: “Father, can’t you hear what the Elf King is promising me?” And deepens once more: “Be calm, my boy – it’s only the wind in the leaves.”

They play on, temporarily united, calling an unspoken truce. 

“I love you,” sings Prussia – the melody, delicate even as it is haunting, grows in strength – “I love your beautiful form – and if you will not come, I will take you by force.” He growls the last word.

Breathing rapidly, Austria slams the keys, playing wildly. “Father, father,” cries Prussia, “he has grabbed me! The Elf King has hurt me!” 

Winter screams outside, clawing at Austria’s window; he can almost see the light before him fade into the darkness, feel the ghostly hands of the Elf King tear at his clothes –

“The father shudders. He rides fast, the groaning boy in his arms. Anxious, he reaches the farm.” Something shifts – at long last, Austria lets his playing slow, for they are no longer riding through the night. His fingers tremble; he lets the music fall into a whisper, dissolve into silence –

“In his arms, the boy…”

A soft chord.

“…is dead.” 

Austria takes a breath. One chord, then another.

And then it is over.

Perhaps the Elf King killed the boy; or perhaps he had been delirious from a fever all along, dying with every hoof beat. There is no answer. 

There never will be one. 

Soon after, Prussia makes his own disappearance into the night. Afterwards they do not speak of this incident, of the time when Austria played Schubert’s music and Prussia sang Goethe’s poetry, creating the piece known as the Erlkönig. Looking back, Austria wishes he’d said –

That no matter how hard a person runs, winter will catch up in time.


End file.
